


The Fiddler's Wolf

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst and Humor, Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, If I Decide to Add Smut, Implied Child Sexual Assault, Kind of Follows Canon but at the Same Time Not Really, M/M, No Beta, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Panic Attacks, Rating May Change, Tags to be added, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24535393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Upon meeting a sullen Witcher in a dark corner of a tavern the aspiring bard, Geralt du Rivia, finds himself becoming engaged in an adventure that lasts for decades. As he gets to know the Witcher and spends painstaking care coaxing the man out of his iron shell, Geralt doesn't notice as his heart becomes ensnared by him while the bard's Destiny is woven into the tapestry of the mystery that surrounds the past of Julian of Kerack. He thought they had all the time in the world, but it's becoming evident that the world is working against them as Julian's past races to meet them headlong. After all, even a Witcher can't outrun Destiny.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 110





	1. The Witcher, Julian of Kerack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this Reverse AU in my head for ages now. Originally, Jaskier was going to be a different witcher school but I ultimately decided against it. The working title for this was The Rockrose and the Thistle because it's inspired by the song of the same name from The Amazing Devil however I changed it to The Fiddler's Wolf because I wanted this to be a good mix of comedy and angst, not just pure angst like it was originally going to be.
> 
> Please enjoy!

The air in the tavern is heavy with humidity from the hot summer sun that beats down on its wooden roof and the muggy sweat of unwashed human bodies all crammed into one space. It fills noses with a sour scent that lingers from the lack of breeze despite all the shutters and sashes of windows being thrown open to encourage even the slightest bit of airflow. The ale being nursed by the tavern’s patrons is warm and the heat spoils the hops and ruins any refreshment the drink may have provided, especially for the bard singing by the empty fireplace. 

Beads of perspiration drip down his pale forehead and along his sharp jaw, dripping from his chin to splash on the floor or collect on the fiddle tucked against the conjunction of his shoulder and neck, his navy blue doublet properly buttoned up to the collar despite the soaring temperatures. A pink flush from heat is on his cheeks and the edges of his wrists that peek out from beneath his long sleeved silks and a few strands of his ash blond hair that have come loose of his half bun are plastered to his forehead.

Geralt du Rivia, traveling bard first and viscount of Rinde second, has a voice that many of his professors at Oxenfurt called “intriguing yet alluring”. His deep baritone tends to be a bit husky, like he’s smoked a pipe too many in his twenty years despite never touching one of the things out of fear of what it could do to his vocal chords, and lends itself well to funeral dirges and lamenting ballads of lost loves. Which is great except for the fact that Geralt frankly hates funerals (too morbid) and resents ballads about lost loves (too common).

His own repertoire of music isn’t all that great either, if he really wants to lay himself bare before the choir. While his voice is “intriguing yet alluring” and his skill with his fiddle is nothing to turn his nose up at, his songwriting abilities need a lot of work. Oh, he did well enough to graduate with honors and become a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, but it's easy to write songs about the things that people want to hear. Love, friendship, drinking, sex. Especially when one is as experienced in all of the above as Geralt is. 

Well, maybe not love. Or really friendship. But Geralt is very well versed in drinking and sex with a habit to maybe overindulge a tad in both. He’s no stranger to love, people seem to fall in love with him an awful lot which is a real problem when he just wants to bed a handsome lad or lass for a night. They’ll claim to be falling in love with him already and then he has to either awkwardly explain he was just looking for a tryst (which is made all the more awkward by remembering how he tends to be a romantic flirt) or he gets run off by an angry family member for soiling the purity and breaking the heart of their brother/sister/son/daughter.

He doesn’t mean to, it just happens. And don’t even get Geralt started on friendship. He struggles to make friends that last more than a week in his company. Other people always seem put off by his blunt but frequent words. For a bard, Geralt doesn’t hold much regard for flowery language, not outside of singing or flirting of course, it always seems to lead to misunderstandings so it’s easier to be straightforward when conversing with people. However, that backfires if he tries to make a dry joke or accidentally says something offensive when trying to just be honest. At least his compliments are always sincere, people always respond well to those.

With his thoughts in the clouds and the heat making them a little hazy, Geralt doesn’t notice as his already vaguely unwilling audience becomes downright hostile. Their animosity is no doubt in part because of the oppressive heat but it probably doesn’t help that the bard had started singing a rather offensive drinking song just after noon that’s best suited to late at night when folks are deep in the booze. The hostility starts out as irritated murmurs and indifferent chatter to their entertainer but starts to rise in volume when Geralt sings a particularly prickly line about the “bastard babes birthed by full-bosomed bitches to barons”.

“Ain’t you a bastard yourself, bard?” An annoyed voice calls from the crowd, “That’s what I hears anyhow.”

“Quit your yodeling already!”

Geralt blinks in mild surprise at his irate audience, his hazel eyes sweeping over twisted expressions as he continues to sing until someone decides to quiet him by throwing food at him. It’s not a wholly uncommon occurrence, but Geralt isn’t looking forward to getting his silks cleaned so while he’s annoyed at his reception and the forced end of his performance he’s glad that all that is being tossed at him is stale bread.

“Go fuck yourselves, you wouldn’t know talent if it fucked your mothers,” he snaps irritably, just as affected by the weather as everyone else. It’s unwise of him to taunt an angry audience like this but luck seems to continue to be on his side as they ignore his response, turning back to their drinks once his fiddle has been lowered and his singing has ceased. 

With a huff of annoyance Geralt tucks his instrument away in its case, checking his bow for any loosening or split hairs, before collecting the least stale bread from the ground and pocketing it. If he can’t buy sustenance with coin, since there was none given to him, then he’ll have to make do with the free food thrown at him. 

He straightens up once more and slings the strap of his violin case across his chest before glancing around the tavern once more. His bardic abilities were a bust today but perhaps his more sexual exploits can secure him a bed for the evening, or at the very least a better drink than the sour ale the barkeep provided him in exchange for his performance. No one catches his eye, unfortunately, that is until he spots someone sitting in the very corner and nearly out of view. It’s no wonder Geralt didn’t see them before, hidden in the shadows like they are, and he recalls that he didn’t hear any outrage or heckling coming from that particular part of the tavern either so he decides to see who this stranger is and if they’re willing to be less of a stranger to him.

As he approaches he gets a better look at the person, who he can confidently confirm to be a man. Difficult to tell any modicum of height, but the man has decently broad shoulders and dark brown hair that’s messy and matted, a few leaves and sticks visible amongst the tangled curls. Neutral leather armor is strapped to his torso and Geralt can see he’s wearing a dark red chemise underneath it. 

Strapped across his chest are two swords, the grip of one wrapped in brown leather and the grip of the other wrapped in black, the crossguards differing as well in thickness and the pommels are different shapes, the black gripped sword with a diamond shaped pommel and the brown gripped sword with a standard sphere. Gleaming on his chest is a silver medallion that Geralt can’t quite make out the image of from his distance.

The man’s head is bowed as he looks into the tankard of ale clasped between his gloved hands, sitting silently in the shadowy corner and very nearly blending in with the wooden wall behind him. Which seems to have been his desire as his hands tighten on his tankard when Geralt slips into the booth across from him, glancing at the medallion again. Up close he can see that it’s the visage of a snarling wolf and the bard glances at the swords again, his eyes flicking back and forth between them and the medallion for a long few seconds until the man heaves a heavy sigh, resigning himself to Geralt’s presence.

“What do you want?” His voice is slightly higher pitched than Geralt’s own, a rich tenor that’s rough with… something. Be it disuse or, if Geralt’s really deluding himself, desire. He looks up at Geralt with a small frown, his golden cat eyes narrowed as he suspiciously surveys the bard across from him. 

Geralt is taken aback momentarily by this Witcher, for he must be one with the startlingly gold eyes paired with the swords, medallion, and general aura of  _ fuck off _ . His startle isn’t from being faced with a Witcher though, not at all, rather it’s from how incredibly attractive this Witcher is. He has high cheekbones and sun-kissed skin that’s speckled with freckles across his nose and cheeks. His lips, though chapped, are an alluring pink and there’s the tiniest hint of a cleft in his chin. He has a square jawline that’s sharp enough to cut glass and his dark hair brushes his long eyelashes. The most defining feature of his face is the thick scar that carves across his skin from his left temple to his right earlobe, cutting through his eye and over the bridge of his nose, and is flanked by two thinner scars on either side of it of nearly the same length. But even these only add to his handsomeness in Geralt’s humble opinion.

Geralt blinks and clears his throat, letting a flirtatious smile grace his features as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table and he pushes his hair back over his shoulder, “I couldn’t help but notice that everyone else but you was willing to give me a review of my performance.”

The Witcher hums slightly, implying that he’s listening to Geralt but that the bard hasn’t said anything worth answering yet. 

“Any chance I could get one? A review I mean, after all how am I supposed to improve my skills if I don’t get a collective response from all of my audience?” Geralt tilts his head slightly and rests his chin on the back of his fingers, letting his pinkie finger rest below his bottom lip. Though the Witcher’s eyes don’t stray from Geralt’s own, not yet falling into the bard’s pre-coital fly trap. In fact, while the Witcher is still regarding him with suspicion, he seems to also have taken on a vaguely disinterested air that pairs very well with his general aura of  _ fuck off _ . It’s a good thing Geralt likes to ignore social cues, he very often gets what he wants with this tried and true method.

“Don’t know if I’m qualified for that sort of a thing,” the Witcher says finally and lifts his tankard to his lips, keeping his eyes trained on Geralt over the edge of it as he sips his ale.

He laughs a little and the Witcher’s eyes narrow dangerously, lowering the tankard back to the table. “Who’s more qualified to review my work than the very people my work is for?”

“And who’s that?”

“The common folk after all. The farmers and the butchers and the pretty little wives who gather for merriment after a hard day's work,” Geralt smiles and uses his other hand to gently run his middle finger along the rim of the Witcher’s tankard, “And, of course, the less common folk as well. Can’t forget them, they have needs, too.” He winks salaciously and dips the tip of his finger into the Witcher’s ale before languidly lapping up the drop with the tip of his tongue, maintaining eye contact.

The Witcher hums again, his lips pressed together as he appraises Geralt for a few more moments before he smiles dryly. His voice is laced with heavy sarcasm when he speaks next as he pushes the tankard towards Geralt and stands up, “Here, seems you need it more than I, if you’re desperately sticking your fingers into other people’s drinks.”

Geralt blinks in surprise at both the response and the Witcher’s sudden height, unable to resist raking his eyes shamelessly down the man’s body. Despite his armor, Geralt can tell that he has a narrower waist and hips than his shoulders and the bard’s mouth goes as dry as a desert at the legs of this man. They just go on and on for days with powerful thighs that could probably crush a watermelon and clad in tight black leather that’s tucked into dark brown boots. 

The Witcher turns and briskly walks towards the front of the tavern and Geralt nearly swoons like a schoolgirl at the ass he could probably bounce coins off of. It takes him a few moments to get his unfettered lust under some semblance of control again and in that time his scattered mind manages to put together a few pieces of information until he jumps up and follows the Witcher.

“I know who you are!” he exclaims, walking quickly to catch up, “I mean, three nasty scars across your face, wolf medallion, two very scary looking swords. You must be the Witcher, Julian of Kerack!”

“Congratulations,” The Witcher, Julian, rolls his eyes with a scowl, “You’ve figured me out. Whatever will I do?”

“You could tell me where you’re going.”

That certainly gets the Witcher’s attention and he narrows his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose before growling, “And why the fuck would I do that?”

“So I can join you, of course,” Geralt says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You have an image problem-”

“An  _ image _ problem?”

“-and I want to fix it,” the bard ignores Julian’s interruption and continues talking, “We’d have to figure out a moniker for you, something easy to remember, maybe alliterative. It’d have to be able to slip into songs easily and when this works it would be something that people would probably start calling you instead of your name.”

“Why would I want that?” Julian has made a beeline for the stables outside the inn and his visible irritation is growing by the second as Geralt follows him in and to a stall that houses a beautiful white mare.

“Well, I’m sure it’s not because you desire it,” Geralt rolls his eyes as Julian starts to tack up his horse, “It’s well known that Witchers want for nothing but your precious Path and coin. But even with your lack of human emotion you can’t deny that if you were better viewed by your clientele you’d receive more jobs and thus more coin. As impressive as being the Lyncher of Lettenhove surely is,” Julian’s jaw tightens at the name as Geralt continues to ramble, “I think I’m right in inferring that it’s scaring potential contracts off, am I correct?”

Julian finishes tacking up his horse and turns to look at Geralt with an unreadable expression. He then crooks a finger at the bard, “C’mere.”

“Yeah?” Geralt can’t help the slight eagerness in his voice as he approaches, maybe this is his chance. Maybe he’s finally found his muse, someone to write songs about. He and Julian are roughly eye-level with each other, Geralt standing maybe an inch taller, but his one inch on the Witcher can hardly be called an advantage as Julian’s fist suddenly sinks into Geralt’s gut. 

“Fuck off, bard,” he snarls as Geralt doubles over with a wheeze. Julian then leads his horse out of the stables, leaving Geralt to cough as he recovers the breath knocked out of him and blinks tears from his eyes. Now that definitely wasn’t a response he was expecting, clearly something he said had  _ upset _ the Witcher and Geralt has a feeling he knows exactly what it was.

Julian’s at the edge of town by the time Geralt catches up to him again, seated atop his walking horse with the reins held loosely in his hands. He glances over as Geralt falls into step with him and the Witcher groans, “What does it take to get you to leave me alone?”

“I hear you, I do. You’re not a fan of the whole Lettenhove situation, I understand,” Geralt skips a few steps forward so that he’s ahead of the Witcher and turns around to walk backwards, “I won’t bring it up again, I can promise you that. But I’m right when I say you need me.”

“Do I?” Julian’s tone is condescending as he pretends to think, “I’m a Witcher, highly trained in combat and survival skills and mutated to survive just about anything on top of that. My existence is for fighting beasts, not making friends with the humans who hire me.”

“But you can slay more beasts if the humans who hire you aren’t afraid of you!” 

“Everyone’s afraid of me.”

Geralt scowls, his frustration and the blasted heat combining into a volatile anger, “I’m not!”

“And look where that got you,” Julian sneers, “Punched in the gut. Now fuck off before my next hit is farther south.”

“You only hit me because I upset you,” Geralt points out, pushing his damp hair back off of his sweaty face, “Because I mentioned the Lettenhove thing. I’d bet if I hadn’t said a word of it you wouldn’t have touched me at all. I’m very sorry that I hurt your feelings, I didn’t realize Witchers even had them-”

“We don’t.”

“-and if I had I would have been more sensitive. I’ll try to be, moving forward-”

“Doubtful.”

“-and as your bard, your barker if you will, I’m taking it upon myself to fix your image. No need to thank me-”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“-I’m doing it out of the goodness of my heart. And the potential coin. And the protection a Witcher can provide a traveling bard,” Geralt finishes and glances over his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t trip over anything as he continues to walk backwards, “So what do you say?”

“I say, ‘fuck off’.”

“Well, if you won’t travel with me, then I suppose I’ll just have to travel with you,” he shrugs and Julian glares at him so furiously that a lesser man would surely relieve himself right then and there. As it is, Geralt feels his knees shake slightly at the ferocity of the Witcher’s stare but he pretends he doesn’t. He’s told Julian he doesn’t fear him and Geralt’s determined to make sure there’s nothing Julian can do to change that.

After a long time the Witcher just turns to look forward again, not saying another word to either encourage or dissuade Geralt in his endeavor, which the bard takes as a win. He gives Julian another ten minutes of silence as he walks alongside the Witcher and his horse before he tentatively reaches out to pet the horse’s neck. 

Julian swats his hand away with the gathered end of the reins and a grunted, “Don’t touch Pegasus.”

“Pegasus?” Geralt asks in disbelief, “Your horse’s name is  _ Pegasus _ ? You wouldn’t choose an… I dunno… more dangerous name for a Witcher’s steed? Something to warn off bandits and crooks, to strike fear into the hearts of soldiers when news of your arrival reaches nobility?”

“Her name is Pegasus,” Julian says firmly, “And I thought your whole thing earlier was about getting people to fear me less. Doesn’t that mean Pegasus works in your favor?”

Geralt blinks with a hum at Julian’s remark, “That’s surprisingly insightful.”

“You calling me stupid?”

“Not at all. I just wasn’t expecting…” Geralt shakes his head when Julian gives him a glance in sharp warning, “Nevermind that. Anyway, I’ll have to see you fight something if I’m to write a heroic ballad about it.”

“You won’t do either.”

“And why not?”

“Because the first is too dangerous and the second is too stupid.”

“I can’t imagine I would be all that endangered if there’s a Witcher fighting a beast,” Geralt sniffs and crosses his arms, “And a heroic ballad is what will get people to change their tune about you.”

Julian huffs, “I’m no hero.”

“Perhaps not yet, good Witcher,” Geralt says, a sly grin spreading across his lips, “But with me at your side, we’ll make a hero out of you yet.”

* * *

“And you’re certain I can’t join you in the saddle? It’s just so hot out here and I’m not wearing the right boots for long distance walking. I fear I may suffer from heatstroke, or blisters, or both.”

“If you’re to travel with me you won’t touch Pegasus.”

“Aha! So you admit that I can travel with you!”

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	2. New Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has been traveling, well, following Julian for six months now and it's been four weeks since the last time the Witcher tried to ditch him. He considers that positive progress and spends some time reflecting on his time with Julian, tears up some grass, and gets a little boo-boo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, non-graphic description of cleaning/stitching a wound, non-graphic description of stepping on a glass shard

“Julian! There you are, you rascal, I was wondering where you’d got off to. What are you… Julian. Julian, knock it off, my human legs are no match for Pegasus’s elegant gait. Wait, Julian! Slow down! Julian!”

Geralt huffs as he drops from a jog back to a walk, watching with narrowed hazel eyes as Julian trots ahead atop his steed and he huffs an irritated curse. He knows the Witcher won’t go all that far, only just out of sight and able to get back to the bard if trouble finds the troubadour, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying how often his travel companion tries to shake him off. 

They’ve been traversing the Continent together for nearly two seasons now, the comforting warmth of early Autumn dropping in temperature as Winter draws nearer. Alright, traveling _together_ might be pushing it. Geralt concedes that it would probably be more accurate to call it “Julian traveling the Continent and doing his damn job while Geralt follows him around”, but that doesn’t have as nice a ring to it.

Geralt sighs and looks up at the trees adorned with sparse leaves of yellow and orange, the brisk wind making them rustle on thin branches. The dirt crunches beneath his boots and he can practically feel every rock and pebble through the worn soles, who knew traipsing after a Witcher on foot would do a number on the leather? He hums softly to himself for a few minutes as he lets his mind wander, thinking about the time he’s shared with Julian so far.

He knows he’s not the easiest traveling companion. Geralt doesn’t have droves of knowledge on living in the wilderness, he’s not used to long days on his feet under a hot sun, he asks invasive questions as they come to mind without pausing to consider the repercussions. He’s stubborn and he tries to listen to Julian when the Witcher gives him direction, really he does, but Geralt never liked being told what to do and at the end of a long day when he’s tired and his patience has run thin he tends to snip irritably at the Witcher. Julian then gets this _glower_ on his face but usually just sighs and crosses his arms, watching the bard until Geralt gives in to Julian’s whims with mumbled insults and grumbled complaints.

But Geralt feels like he’s a little justified in being difficult since Julian tries to abandon him at least once per week.

Well, that's not exactly true. After their first meeting and Geralt expanded Julian’s travel party from two to three, the Witcher begrudgingly allowed the bard to tag along to the next town where he had heard there was a contract for a wyvern. Geralt had then asked every single question that came to mind to try and find out as much about wyverns as he could, surely he could write a song about this and it would be the beginning of Julian’s image recovery. The Witcher had answered the first three questions before irritably snapping that what did it matter since Geralt wasn’t going to see it anyway and then nudging Pegasus ahead until he was out of sight. 

Geralt had worried for a few hours that Julian decided Geralt wasn’t worth protecting on the open road until the bard came across the Witcher sitting on a felled log while Pegasus grazed. Geralt had expressed his distaste for Julian’s disappearance and Julian had rolled his eyes and grumbled that he never got so far away that he couldn’t hear Geralt so the bard was never in any _real_ danger. Which opened the can of worms that was Geralt wondering about Witcher anatomy and constitution, all of the questions Julian either ignored or insulted the blatantly wrong rumors about Witchers.

They continued on and Geralt figured all was well. They reached the next town a few days later, Julian having given Geralt his bedroll for camping since the bard didn’t own one and Julian didn’t _“want to hear you bitching about how your back is killing you tomorrow since your pansy ass doesn’t sleep on the ground”_ while the Witcher just settled down on the cold ground with an arm behind his head. Julian left Geralt at the tavern to go meet with the alderman about the contract but when Julian didn’t return for hours and hours Geralt took his leave to go seek him out. Turned out Julian had already handled the wyvern, collected his coin, and then left town. All without telling Geralt.

It took him three days to catch up to Julian that first time.

Geralt was determined not to let it bother him and didn’t say anything, just going on like nothing had happened after rejoining Julian on the road. The next few towns they passed through didn’t have contracts so Julian didn’t stop, preferring to camp instead of stay at an inn. Geralt complained extensively about that each time and each time Julian would either ignore him or fall for the bait and argue with him. The bard didn’t _love_ angering the Witcher, but it was the only way to get a conversation out of the ornery man.

The next contract Julian took required a multiple night stay at an inn, which thrilled Geralt to no end and he debuted his new song _Witcher’s Dragonfire_. He’d based it on what little information he could wring from his arguments with Julian about the wyvern battle and then took a lot of liberties with it via poetic license. It didn’t do poorly, per say, but it wasn’t perfect either. It was a good start.

Not good enough to prove himself to Julian though as Geralt woke on the third day to an empty room when he _knew_ Julian had fallen asleep in the bed opposite him the night before. The stables were empty of Pegasus, too, but luckily the stableboy could point out to Geralt the direction Julian set off in. He caught up to Julian the very same day.

At least he had the decency not to leave the bard alone and defenseless in the wilderness. But Geralt was starting to become discouraged at the frequency with which Julian tried to disappear on him when, about four months in, he realized that the amount of time between attempted abandonment was growing longer and longer. And right now, as Geralt traipses patiently after the Witcher, he realizes it’s been nearly an entire month since Julian tried to ditch Geralt at an inn.

He glances down at his boots as a grin spreads across his lips and he wonders if Julian’s even noticed. The Witcher has less emotional awareness than the world’s most enraged slug, Geralt wouldn’t doubt it if Julian didn’t realize that the bard is becoming his friend as much as Julian is Geralt’s. Sure, the Witcher denies any sort of attachment to Geralt whenever the bard calls him his friend or companion or acquaintance, but if he truly didn’t feel _anything_ for Geralt then why would he keep looking out for Geralt?

The bard pulls his violin case forward and unclasps it, removing his fiddle and bow to tune them so he can work on his most recent piece de resistance. It’s a drinking song about the beasts Julian slays, complete with as much _accurate_ information as Julian will give him. He’s hoping it’ll help Witchers in the long run if humans can better identify the monsters they put contracts out on. He started on it the first time he saw Julian injured after a hunt, a nasty gash on his forearm since he hadn’t worn all of his armor with the expectation of swimming with drowners but instead getting attacked by a kikimore. 

The wound had shaken Geralt and reminded him that Julian’s job is dangerous. That Witchers do an indispensable service for the Continent and what do they get in return? They get called monsters, compared to the very beasts they slay. Spit on. Stoned. Sneered at. Stiffed on coin. It makes Geralt’s blood boil and at first he couldn’t understand how Julian would just let it slide off of him when the Witcher was so quick to anger around the bard.

He’s been slowly learning how to speak Julian though, a tricky language that ranges from irritated grunts and growls to snarled words and insults. Geralt was struggling though, he’d been missing something that would make this elusive secret language more understandable, and it clicked when he realized it was body language. He’d nearly laughed when he figured it out, he’s a _bard_ , he’s an expert at reading body language and he couldn’t believe it didn’t occur to him sooner to pay attention to Julian’s. After that, the Witcher became easier for Geralt to understand.

A noncommittal hum paired with a sideways glance in response to a question Geralt posed means _“I don’t think that one is worth answering but you’re not irritating me enough to stop indulging you”_.

A slight downturn of Julian’s lips and a hunch of his shoulders as they stand in a busy tavern means _“I’m uncomfortable with all these people”_.

A short, huff followed by the Witcher leaning back becomes Geralt’s favorite because it means Julian found whatever the bard had just said amusing and is further proof that Julian doesn’t hate Geralt’s continued company.

Geralt’s not an idiot either, he was top of his class at Oxenfurt Academy and he’s observant and a quick study so it’s only after a few weeks that he takes over setting up camp for them while Julian hunts for their dinner. When Julian had come back, having gone to hunt before setting camp so he had the evening sun still, and saw the camp was set up in full except for the fire being lit he had blinked and tilted his head with his brows raised slightly which Geralt had learned meant he was surprised before he had huffed in amusement and lit the fire with a Witcher sign. Geralt had been inordinately proud that night that he’d gotten _pleasant_ surprise out of the not-so-emotionless Witcher.

He also notices that Julian positively _adores_ hot baths. Geralt had thought the Witcher just didn’t like bathing, since Julian didn’t wash for another two weeks still after their meeting and his hair and skin had already been filthy. Turns out Julian just doesn’t like cold water for bathing in, but give him a hot bath and he’s hard pressed to get out in under an hour. Geralt thinks it’s incredibly endearing that the walking death machine has a weakness for something as simple as _hot water_.

Julian always tried to negotiate a bath into the cost of their rooms during their infrequent inn stays but isn’t often successful. Geralt refuses to let Julian go for weeks at a time without bathing though so he offers a happy medium, if Julian will take a full bath at least once per week in streams and rivers, not just wiping down his face and arms like he usually does, then Geralt will ensure there is a hot bath waiting for him after every contract that they stay at an inn for the duration of. 

Julian had reluctantly agreed, clearly not trusting Geralt to uphold his side of the bargain, but that was a month ago now and Julian’s completed three contracts in that time. And each time he returned to their shared room Geralt had a bath waiting for him. Whether it was truly hot or not was debatable but Julian had grumbled it was fine since he could use Ingi to reheat the water.

Geralt turns a bend in the road and spies Julian a few dozen yards ahead as he lets Pegasus rest, the Witcher laying back in the grass with his eyes closed and letting the sun warm his face. Geralt isn’t foolish enough to think that the Witcher doesn’t know he’s there, not again at least. His first and only attempt to playfully sneak up on Julian had ended so embarrassingly pitiful that the Witcher hadn’t needed to say anything, just raised an eyebrow at Geralt who had immediately turned bright red with embarrassment and shame.

He smiles softly and takes a few moments to just look at Julian semi-relax. He’s never seen the Witcher in a state of full relaxation and he wonders if he ever will, but until then these glimpses of a calmness that usually escapes Julian makes something pleasant and warm blossom in Geralt’s belly.

“Finally quit lagging behind, huh?” Julian calls out without opening his eyes and Geralt’s bow halts on the strings of his fiddle as he rolls his eyes.

“May I remind you it was _you_ who took off while I was taking a piss? What was all that about?” the bard tucks his instrument back in its case before crossing his arms over his chest and looming over the Witcher, letting his shadow block the sun.

Julian lazily opens one cat-eye to peer up at him, his hands laced over his stomach, and shrugs passively, “Dunno. Felt like it.”

Geralt shakes his head and scowls slightly, “It was fucking rude.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise.”

“I’d hoped you would start making an effort for a friend,” the bard folds his legs beneath him as he sits down by Julian’s shoulder, picking at the grass and plucking blades from the soft earth.

Julian closes his eyes again, “We’re not friends.”

“You can’t tell me who I can and can’t befriend, so even if you don’t consider me your friend I consider you to be mine,” Geralt says smugly with a grin and Julian presses his lips together irritably.

“You’re ruining a perfectly nice afternoon with all this nasty talk of friendship, Geralt,” Julian sighs and props the heel of one boot against the toe of the other, wiggling his foot to a silent beat. Geralt’s noticed that, for how often Julian rages against conversation, he never tells Geralt to stop playing his music or stop singing. He has the feeling that the Witcher isn’t a fan of silences, for if Geralt lets one stretch out, Julian will fill it himself by tapping his fingers on the horn of his saddle or clacking his teeth together behind closed lips or any number of small fidgety movements that make noise almost too quiet to hear.

Geralt yawns and plucks more grass, gathering it in a small pile on Julian’s ribs, “Just because you’re old and crotchety and like to be a lone wolf doesn’t mean I want the same. I still have my youth, gramps.” He drops more grass onto the pile, being conscious of how close his fingers get to the Witcher’s shirt. 

Julian has a strange relationship with touch. While Geralt isn’t the most tactile of humans, he still enjoys sharing a certain amount of contact like all people do. A hand on the shoulder, a knee against his own, the occasional embrace, things of that nature. The first time Geralt had clapped a hand on Julian’s shoulder from behind, however, sent the Witcher jumping out of his skin and leaping away from Geralt with a snarl. 

So he figured Julian didn’t like to be touched at all, but then when he was a little inebriated, Drunk Geralt forgot about that and playfully punched Julian’s shoulder while sitting next to him in a tavern. Julian had tensed up but didn’t move away or react like before. Through trial and error that Geralt is still conducting he’s learned that if the Witcher can’t see him he shouldn’t touch Julian, but if he’s in Julian’s line of sight then playfully touches are okay. 

Embraces are a big no go, at least right now. He tried to hug Julian after a contract ended poorly and the Witcher seemed upset and Julian had frozen up before shoving him away and disappearing for two days into the woods, not even taking Pegasus with him. When he returned, neither of them mentioned anything about it and it goes unspoken of to this day. 

The playful touches don’t make him tense up quite as much as they did before either, which Geralt finds promising for getting Julian to open up to him more as they become better friends. Julian never initiates any contact unless it’s absolutely necessary though, so that’s a hurdle they need to get over first.

“You know I’m not that much older than you, right?” Julian says and Geralt glances down at him before doing a shocked double take. Not only is Julian continuing the conversation in a way that _encourages_ Geralt to ask questions, there’s an undeniable upturn at the corners of his lips as he watches the bard with half-lidded eyes. Somehow, just from absently piling stupid grass on Julian, he’s gotten his first smile out of the Witcher.

Geralt decides not to acknowledge the smile, figuring it’s best to pretend it’s unnoticed, “How old are you then? A hundred? A million?”

Julian huffs and tilts his head back, that tiny smile still dancing on his lips, “Witchers don’t live to be a million. Least I don’t think so, we don’t actually know our exact life expectancy.”

“So how old are you? I mean, you know I’m twenty.”

“Yeah, you’re a child,” Julian scoffs and where it would normally be an insult it comes across as teasing this time, “I’m sixty two.”

“That’s old! Almost an entire human lifetime!” Geralt grins and pulls one knee to his chest, wrapping his arm around it as he looks down at Julian and brushes the grass off of the Witcher’s torso since Julian is looking at him. He tenses briefly under Geralt’s touch, especially when the bard decides to just leave his hand resting flat on top of Julian, before he slowly relaxes back to the point he was at before. 

Geralt has to clench his jaw to stop himself from making a happy noise.

“Maybe, but it’s a blink to a Witcher,” Julian slips his hands behind his head and Geralt can feel the lean muscle move beneath his hand and the forest green shirt Julian is wearing today, “Oldest Witcher I know is nearing three hundred.”

“Who’s the youngest?”

“From my school? You’re looking at ‘im,” Julian sighs slightly, a surprisingly open expression on his face, “I was in the last group. Me and one other Witcher made it.”

“What happened after that? How come more Witchers haven’t been made?” Geralt asks quietly but it seems that talk-about-Julian time is over as the Witcher’s eyes shut and his jaw tightens.

“Doesn’t matter. C’mon, we’re nearly to Gulet,” Julian shakes off Geralt’s hand and stands up, stretching his arms above his head until his spine pops a few times.

The bard presses his lips together as he squints at Julian’s back for a few moments and then climbs to his feet as well, brushing invisible dirt off of his pants, “What’s in Gulet?”

“Griffin. Got a tip from that last town we passed through.”

“You’ve been taking mostly big contracts lately, not as many little ones, how come?” 

Julian glances at Geralt before mounting Pegasus and leading her back onto the road, the bard falling into step beside her. “Winter. Gotta get the gold to stock up before heading home.”

“Home? Where would we be going?”

The Witcher frowns and for once it’s not an irritated one, “No ‘we’, Geralt. Just me. I’ll escort you to wherever you’re gonna winter if you’re gonna hole up someplace and then we’ll part ways.”

“Oh,” Geralt frowns deeply as he looks up at the almost remorseful expression on Julian’s face, “What about in the-” he yelps suddenly and the Witcher is immediately dismounted and beside him, his hand on the pommel of his steel sword.

“What is it?” Julian’s eyes quickly flicker back and forth between the trees around them and Geralt, looking him over for an injury.

The bard hisses and puts a hand on Julian’s shoulder to balance himself, ignoring how the Witcher stiffens up at the casual touch, as he lifts his foot to look at the bottom of it. A thick shard of glass from a shattered bottle is sticking out of the worn leather sole of his boot, having cut right through and sunk into his heel when he placed his weight down. “Stepped on glass, looks like a broken bottle or some-” Geralt’s words are lost as he finds himself in Julian’s arms, his hazel eyes going wide and his arms instinctively wrapping around the Witcher’s shoulders in the bridal carry.

Julian sets him down on a boulder before getting his pouch of medical supplies and kneeling down in front of Geralt, wordlessly unlacing the bard’s boot. “Uh, Julian?” Geralt starts, almost nervously as the Witcher works methodically, “What are you doing?”

“Removing the glass and assessing the damage?” Julian looks up at Geralt and raises an eyebrow at him, “Do you want me to stop, bard? Prefer to walk on glass?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head and gestures for Julian to continue, “By all means.” 

Julian nods and grips the heel of Geralt’s boot before swiftly pulling it off, removing the glass from Geralt’s foot with it. The bard grunts and scrunches up his face as his heel throbs and bleeds freely while Julian pulls his soiled sock off as well. His eyes then pop open again as hands, roughened with callouses from swords and hard labor, touch his ankle so gently it’s almost like the caress of a lover. It’s probably just to ease Geralt’s nerves at being touched by a Witcher and the bard desperately hopes that Julian doesn’t interpret the jackrabbitting of Geralt’s heart as an aversion to Julian’s touch.

“It’s gonna need stitches,” Julian murmurs and reaches into the medical bag to remove the needle, thread, and disinfectant.

“Can you distract me?” Geralt blurts out, curling his hands nervously in his lap, “It kinda hurts. And I can’t imagine getting sewn up will make it hurt less.”

“Different kind of hurt at least,” the Witcher huffs a laugh, “How do you want me to distract you?”

“Tell me a story?”

Julian is silent for a few long moments as he gets some clean cotton ready to catch blood when he stitches and then he uncorks the vial of disinfectant, “Okay. But no asking questions about it. And no putting it in songs.”

Geralt nods, dragging his finger in an X over his heart, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Seems a little extreme,” Julian grumbles before sighing and putting disinfectant on the cotton. He swipes it over the wound as he talks and Geralt has to fight the groan that tries to escape, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Julian. His family didn’t have much money and he had a lot of siblings so there were a lot of mouths to feed, but he thought they were happy and loved.” Julian wipes down the needle and thread with the cotton before threading the needle and pinching the edges of the cut together so he can sew it with steady hands, “Julian was very little the first time he went to the tavern with his father. He worked at the tavern and Julian needed to be supervised sometimes while his mother watched Julian’s older siblings. One day, Julian saw a woman dancing and singing and playing an instrument and she taught him a few notes. Julian loved her and from that point on, he very desperately wanted to be a bard just like her.” 

Geralt remains silent and bites his lip to stop himself from making any sounds that could discourage Julian from telling Geralt his story. He has no idea what happened to make the Witcher open up today of all days but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Julian finishes the stitches and uses his dagger to cut the thread before getting some salve and put on the wound before he bandages it up.

“Julian would sing and dance every day to train to be a bard. He had lots of space to practice because people didn’t visit the tavern very often, and with so many mouths to feed and not enough children old enough to work, Julian’s parents ran out of money. His father closed and sold the tavern and that helped for a little bit, but they sold right before after spring so they didn’t get the chance to till the soil or sow any crops to sell or feed themselves. The money ran out again.”

Julian starts slowly wrapping Geralt’s foot in bandages and sighs again, “Julian’s father decided to try to provide for the rest of the family by selling one of his children. The one he had the least amount of time to form a connection with. He sells his youngest child, Julian, to the local nobleman who didn’t want a child but did want to stimulate his economy. The nobleman bought Julian and on the fifteenth of October, fifty seven years ago today, Julian’s dreams of being a bard were doomed to never come true as a Witcher came and picked up Julian, taking him away forever.”

Julian puts the medical supplies back in the pouch before standing up again, “Need me to kiss it better? I know mommy isn’t here so I’ll take one for the team,” the Witcher says sarcastically to change the subject before Geralt can even say anything about the story he told. 

Geralt blinks and watches as Julian puts the medical supplies back in Pegasus’s saddlebag before shaking his head, “Uh, no. No, thank you, Jules.”

Julian hums and it’s one that Geralt hasn’t learned yet as he approaches and picks up Geralt’s boot and sock, stuffing the bloodied sock into the neck of the shoe and then tucking that away in the saddlebag as well.

“How am I supposed to walk if you’ve stolen my boot?” Geralt drawls, leaning back on his hands and looking up at Julian who rolls his eyes and scoops the bard up for the second time today. He didn’t fully appreciate being carried in Julian’s strong arms the first time and his stomach swoops at the warmth pressed against his side from the Witcher’s chest as Julian carries him over to Pegasus and lifts him up onto the horse.

“You’re letting me ride Pegasus?”

“I assume you know how to?” Julian quirks an eyebrow up at Geralt who flushes slightly and nods. Odd, he knows Julian wasn’t making a euphemism there so why did he think of it like one anyway? “Good. Just sit tight and I’ll lead her. We’ll reach Gulet by nightfall.”

Geralt nods and falls silent and holds onto the horn of the saddle as Julian gathers Pegasus’s reins in hand, walking beside his horse and leading them to the town. The bard decides to fill the silence with soft humming, never giving the tunes lyrics, and maybe he imagines it but he thinks he sees some tension melt out of Julian’s shoulders.

“Can I ask you a question?” Geralt asks a few hours later, the sun nearing the horizon and painting the sky a rich orange and yellow.

Julian glances over at him, “Depends on what it is.”

“If you… I mean the boy from your story, Julian, if he got to become a bard. Would he have changed his name?” Geralt tilts his head slightly, “Lots of bards have stage names.”

“What’s yours?” Julian asks curiously, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them. He can see Gulet in the distance.

“The White Wolf,” Geralt blushes slightly, “It’s stupid, I know.”

Julian hums softly, “I don’t think so. It suits you.” 

After a few moments of silence Geralt rolls his eyes, “Care to elaborate?”

“Nope.”

“Alright, well what would the boy’s name have been?”

Julian is silent for a very long time and Geralt has accepted that he’s not going to answer when he clears his throat, “Jaskier. He would have called himself Jaskier.”

Geralt nods slightly and looks over at Julian, who has an unreadable expression right now, “What was the name of the bard in Julian’s father’s tavern? That he wanted to be like?”

“You’re just full of questions about the story I explicitly said no questions about, aren’t you?” Julian snaps and shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes. He needs a haircut soon.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs and ducks his head, falling silent again. Just before they enter the hamlet, Julian speaks one more time.

“Her name was Buttercup.”

* * *

Geralt wasn't sure how he was going to afford new boots, he wasn’t making enough money from his playing at Julian’s side just yet and he didn’t have time to write home for a loan that would never be repaid. He had been sitting on the bed, counting the coins in his purse, when Julian left to go take care of the griffin in first rays of dawn and the Witcher didn’t return until long after Geralt had fallen asleep. When he wakes up the following morning he can see the curve of Julian’s shoulder and hip as he sleeps on his side on the opposite bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist. The Witcher’s swords are resting on the table in the corner in the room, a few empty potion vials are in front of the smoldering hearth, and beside Geralt’s bed:

A brand new pair of sturdy, stylized boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	3. The Frozen Embrace of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt runs into one of Julian’s brothers after a mad dash to beat his Witcher to the base of the Blue Mountains at the first sign of Spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I apologize for the delay in a chapter update, but I was developing a plot for this story. Since there is now a plan for it, I’ve updated the summary and there’s an update schedule! The Fiddler’s Wolf will update on Tuesdays until completion. It will continue to be in a sort of episodic format but as the “episodes” get more complex and heavier with plot the chapters will get longer. Please enjoy!
> 
> CW: mild descriptions of a panic attack

Winters are generally kind to Geralt, which is a luxury he knows that many people cannot afford so the bard always appreciates whatever court he’s found himself contracted at, to the fullest extent. 

He preens under the attentions of the nobility that gleefully listen to him perform for them nightly, bathes every other day in deliciously scented baths just because he can, and beds as many men and women as his patrons employ. His bardic inspiration might suffer a little without his Witcher at his side, but he always shoves away the bitter longing that lingers at the edges of his thoughts of Julian by filling his days with food, company, and wine as he waits out the most dangerous season of the year.

Geralt learned quickly though, after the first few Winters he and Julian spent apart, he can not linger at whatever establishment has taken him in to weather the snows. Julian doesn’t wait for him, nor does the Witcher seek him out after the ice has melted and the first grasses of Spring have pushed their way through the frozen earth, so it’s up to Geralt ensure their reunion every year. Spring was nearing its end after their first Winter apart when he finally found Julian again, and while the Witcher didn’t try to shake him off anymore Geralt had been secretly hurt by Julian’s lack of initiative to find his traveling companion. 

Julian is also harsher after the Winters, and after five of them Geralt has resigned himself to having to carefully reopen whatever doors his Witcher shuts during the long months spent holed up in a dark keep with his mutant brethren. The bard suspects that Julian’s return home and time spent with other Witchers reminds him that he’s not supposed to have silly things like feelings or connections with humans, so it’s a good thing Geralt has a spine of steel to put up with some of the nasty behavior Julian will display towards him every Spring.

Geralt purses his lips and whistles cheerfully as he walks along the snow-laden road, the slush turned a filthy brown from the churning of cart and carriage wheels through the mud beneath it as the ground warms more with each passing day. Tiny buds dot the bare branches of the trees overhead, warning of the green leaves that will unfurl in the coming weeks and stretch towards the strengthening sun to feed the foliage and bring life back to the woods that surround Vengerberg. The bard has just departed a few days prior from the court of Lady Yennefer, a Baroness with a penchant for dry, twisted humor and extremely filthy sex. Geralt thinks he might be in love.

He’s headed West now, as the first beginnings of snow melt had ushered in the wanderlust that fills his heart just as thoroughly as plain old regular lust and a longing for a companion who will be almost cruel in his brusqueness for about a month or two until Geralt coaxes him out of his shell once more. Julian’s never laid a hand on him since that very first day, and any insults that spill from the Witcher’s attractive lips have little to no heat behind them, so Geralt isn’t too concerned about any real ire his presence might cause Julian.

The Blue Mountains loom on the horizon and Geralt’s pace picks up by half a step as though he’ll cross the sixty miles that stretches between himself and the town at the base of the trail leading to Kaer Morhen by nightfall. He’s hopeful that he managed to adjourn his Winter stay early enough this year to beat Julian to the town as he knows the Witcher tends to take a week or two longer to leave the sanctuary of his keep so that the path down the mountain is safe for Pegasus to navigate.

It takes Geralt four days to reach the town and he’s exhausted when he finally passes through the door to the tavern and inn, his legs and feet aching from the sudden strenuous activity after three months of lazing around. As it’s mid-afternoon there aren’t many patrons in the tavern, a handful of farmers clustered around a table by the fire that roars in the hearth at one end of the large room as they eat and chatter amiably and a solitary man with short cropped red hair who’s built like a brick shithouse sitting at end of the bar beside the wall with his back to the room. Geralt makes a mental note of the Adonis in case he’s still around tonight after he performs to extend an invitation to his room as the bard steps up to the bar.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he tries to give the barkeep his most winning smile but from the dubious expression on the man’s face Geralt wonders if his exhaustion is more visible than he thought, “I’d like to bother you for a room and meal. I’m a traveling bard of some renown and in exchange for playing at your… eh,  _ fine _ establishment,” Geralt glances around at the worn wood and mysterious stains on the floorboards, “and forty percent of any of my earnings, I’d appreciate the room being erm, on the house if you will.”

The barkeep narrows his eyes suspiciously and glances very briefly at the ginger at the end of the bar before turning his muddy eyes back on Geralt, “How long’d you be staying?”

“Indefinitely as I am awaiting a friend, but I will perform nightly until he comes along and then we’ll both be on our merry ways,” the bard claps his hands together jovially, or at least pretending to be jovial. He really is knackered and would just love to get a hot meal and have a lie down for a while.

“What kinda friend? I don’t take kindly to any of them mercenary types being in here. Mages neither.”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt shakes his head, “He’s a Witcher. Should be coming down from Kaer Morhen any day now.” The barkeep sighs but nods and gets a key out from under the counter, slapping it down on the bartop.

“Fine, room’s free but meals and drink you’ve gotta pay for. And I’m wanting half of whatever earnings you reap from your yowling, got it?”

If he were any less tired Geralt would take minor offense to his singing being called  _ yowling _ as he gathers up the key and slips it into his pocket, sitting down on the barstool in front of him to await a hot meal, “Perfectly. In the meantime, I’d appreciate a meal and ale, thanks.” The barkeep grunts and walks back into the kitchen to fulfill the order and Geralt notices the redhead watching him with thinly veiled distrust. The bard peers back curiously until he meets the man’s eyes and he gasps softly at the sight of familiar golden irises and slitted pupils.

“You’re a Witcher,” Geralt says reverently and if anything that makes the man more tense, his eyes narrowing further.

“What’re you waiting for a Witcher for? Got a contract for one of us already?” his voice is rough like Julian’s but deeper, more bass-like, and he doesn’t seem to be quite as tall as Julian.

“Hm?” the bard blinks out of his thoughts as they start to veer dangerously towards the gutter and Geralt offers the Witcher a smile to try and ease some of his tension, “Oh, no I’m afraid not. I’m waiting for my friend to come down from the keep, I tried to make sure I got here early enough this year to intercept him instead of hunting him down.”

“What’d you say your name was, bard?” The Witcher turns and plants his elbow on the bar so he can face Geralt fully, allowing the bard to see the shining wolf medallion resting proudly on his chest.

“Ah, I didn’t,” Geralt chuckles slightly and extends his hand, “Geralt du Rivia, at your service...?”

Recognition flickers across the Witcher’s face and he grins sharply, grabbing Geralt’s hand and aggressively shaking it, “As I live and breathe, the White fuckin’ Wolf. That is what you go by when you prance around in your little costumes, ain’t it?”

Geralt’s cheeks heat slightly at the backhanded insults but he nods anyway, “Aye. You’ve heard of me?”

“Name’s Lambert,” Lambert releases Geralt's aching hand and sits back again, “And ‘course I have. My little shit-for-brains brother won’t fucking shut up about the bitty bard that travels with him.”

Geralt’s not sure how he feels about being described as ‘bitty’ but he pushes on and can’t help the small amount of eagerness in his voice as he asks, “Julian talks about me?”

Lambert nods and crosses his arms over his chest, “Oh sure, all the time at the beginning of Winter. Honestly, you’d think the sun shines outta your ass the way he speaks. Vesemir, our fencing Master, lets him get it outta his system and then gives him the usual lecture about how we’re supposed to travel alone and all that tosh and he’s usually silent the rest of Winter.”

The bard’s brow furrows slightly as he mulls over the influx of new information, “You don’t believe in that as well?”

“Used to,” Lambert shrugs, “Then I decided that the Path was too fucking lonely to not make friends where I can. Humans hate our guts and would gladly see them spilled any day of the year, even with your little ditties helping our reputations, gotta have something to make the nine months I have to spend around the shits bearable.”

He bites his lip before asking delicately, “If I may… why does Julian not share in this sentiment?”

The Witcher sighs slightly and looks away from Geralt, his eyes drifting towards the door to the kitchen behind the bar, “Not my place to share that with you, little pup. You’ll have to ask him.”

Geralt smiles thinly, “I would if I thought I’d get an actual answer. He doesn’t tell me to leave anymore but he still avoids telling me anything about himself if he can.”

“Then that’s his decision,” Lambert shrugs, “He’s a good kid, though. He’ll keep you safe, he has so far.”

“When might he be coming down, by the way?”

“Oh he already left.”

Geralt’s entire world screeches to a halt as his eyes widen and his jaw drops open for a second before he collects his wits enough to utter a disbelieving, “ _ What _ ?”

“Yeah,” Lambert nods, “Got wind of you staying in Vengerberg and set out before the snow had melted. He’s not a fan of the witch.”

“The… witch?”

“Yennefer?” Lambert arches an eyebrow at him, “You do know she’s a sorceress, right? She and Julian have some, like… thing.”

It feels like the walls are closing in and his chest is getting tighter as air becomes harder to inhale, “What does that mean?”

The ginger Witcher scratches along the twin scars that arch over the side of his face as he shrugs, “I think it’s a hate fuck sort of thing. Dunno, he never wants to talk much about it but he trusts the witch about as much as someone should trust a mage. Which is not at all.”

“So where is Julian headed?” His inquiry is barely more than a breathy gasp and he’s starting to feel light headed. He’s not sure if he’s panicking or something else is happening and it’s starting to scare him a little. Well, a lot. Okay, so maybe it is a feeling of panic that’s twisting his stomach into knots and filling his lungs with the absence of oxygen.

“Vengerberg. To rescue you.” Lambert leans forward and peers at the bard, “Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little uh… white, wolf. Heh, get it?”

Geralt does get it but he doesn’t get to respond before his short, jerky breaths lend way to darkness as he faints.

When he returns to consciousness later, it’s heralded by the sharp, repetitive sound of a whetstone dragging along the edge of a blade. The way it doesn’t echo makes Geralt think that he’s in a room, and judging by the softness under him and the warmth tucked around him, it’s probably safe to assume he’s been moved to his bed in the inn portion of the tavern. He sees orange light dancing behind his closed eyelids so he carefully peels them open and looks around the small room, noting with relief that his violin case has been delicately placed on a chair by the door. 

He spies his boots by the door as well, and his Winter coat and doublet are tossed over the back of the chair playing host to his instrument. On the table in the corner of the room sits the pack that Julian demanded he get two Summers ago so that Pegasus didn’t have to carry all of Geralt’s shit, which she does anyway just now it’s contained to his own bag instead of being strewn through Julian’s. There’s a fire lit in the small hearth of the room which is what’s providing the flickering light and it illuminates the achingly familiar form of Julian sat before it as he hunches over his swords, carefully sharpening them as he does nightly.

His Witcher looks tired, like he always does, and his hair is messy and longer than usual, the brown tangles curling under his jaw and hanging down in his eyes. He begrudgingly allows Geralt to cut his hair with the shiny pair of shears the bard invested in the Winter before this past one, but only if Geralt asks Julian to allow the bard to trim the unruly locks. Julian, however, also looks well-fed and healthier than he does the rest of the year, a nice fullness to his shoulders that comes from eating properly while training hard and there’s even some color on his cheeks that’s only visible because the dark skies of Winter lightens the Witcher’s skin. It makes his freckles pop more and even the dark lipstick on his stubbled jaw is stunning-

Wait, lipstick?

_ I think it’s a hate fuck sort of thing _ .

As Geralt recalls Lambert’s words and stares at the evidence of Julian’s coupling with Yennefer he feels a hot coil of anger bubbling in his stomach, just beneath his diaphragm. The ire starts out as a tiny spark but slowly builds into an inferno that has him scowling at the imprint of blood red clay on Winter pale skin, his hands curling into fists beneath the warm blanket that’s quickly becoming more of a hindrance than a comfort as Geralt begins to swelter beneath it. His heart is pounding and there’s the sour taste of bile on the back of his tongue as blood rushes in his ears and he’s not sure exactly why he’s so angry until he figures he must be jealous. 

Geralt’s never thought of himself as a possessive lover, but he’s also never had to blatantly share a partner without discussing it beforehand. So he has to be jealous that Yennefer has decided to take another man to bed that wasn’t Geralt, even though they just spent the last three months having, frankly, spectacular sex. The bard tries to imagine Yennefer with someone faceless or with a woman and finds that he doesn’t get the same rush of aggression as he does at the thought of her bedding Julian, which is incredibly confusing. He must not be jealous of Julian for sleeping with Yennefer then. Maybe… maybe he’s jealous of Yennefer for getting to sleep with-

“I know you’re awake,” Julian’s gruff tenor roughly pulls Geralt out of his swirling mind, “What’re you so fucking pissed about? I can practically hear you posturing.”

“Nothing,” Geralt says quickly, his defensive tone obvious and it makes him wince, “What time is it?”

“Late.”

He sighs and sits up, the blankets falling to his lap and he shudders slightly as the cool draft from the weathered walls kisses his skin through his thin undershirt. He wonders briefly just how much Julian undressed him and he slips a hand beneath the covers and breathes out a silent sigh of relief at the feeling of his trousers on his legs, “I suppose it’s too late to go perform?”

“Room’s paid for,” Julian grunts, his statement pierced by the slow  _ schnickt _ of the whetstone, “Lambert says you fainted.” It’s not phrased like a question, Geralt knows the Witcher wouldn’t be caught dead blatantly asking the bard any questions about his well-being in the first couple months after Winter, but the bard can hear it for the inquiry it is.

“I’m alright,” he says in a softer tone, “I just got worried that I raced all the way here to meet you and had missed you anyway.”

“Hmm.” Geralt hasn’t heard that hum before, and he’s gotten rather fluent in Julian’s sometimes monosyllabic answers. Thinking back on what Julian’s brother told him about why his Witcher left Kaer Morhen early, braving the still frozen paths with Pegasus, he lets himself interpret it as  _ you don’t have to worry about that anymore since I sought you out this year, even if it was just to save you from a mage _ . That’s a lot of information to fit into less than a second of noise, but if anyone can do it it would be Julian.

Geralt shivers again as another draft wafts through the room, the fire not quite strong enough to do proper battle with the elements that have battered and bested this inn for however long it’s been standing, so he starts to rub his arms to use the friction as a source of heat.

“Go to sleep, Geralt,” Julian huffs and flips the sword over, the metal gleaming in the fluttering of the flames and Geralt can almost imagine seeing the reflection of Julian’s golden eyes on the blade as he lies down and draws the covers up to his chin. It’s too late, though, and the damage has been done. He let the warm air out of the cocoon and the cold air rushed in to replace it, leaving the very human bard a shivering and shuddering mass beneath the blankets.

He must doze off at some point, despite the chill, as he’s awoken to the feeling of the bed dipping behind him and a warm mass settling at his side. He blearily tries to blink the sleep from his eyes before he realizes the darkness of the room is due to the fire having burned down to smoldering embers. Geralt turns his head and is brought face-to-face with Julian’s deep scowl and golden irises as the Witcher raises a blessedly warm hand and covers the bard’s eyes with rough calluses.

“Go back to sleep, bard,” the command is there in Julian’s voice but the Witcher’s tone is softer than usual so Geralt closes his eyes and Julian’s fingers twitch lightly against the delicate bones of Geralt’s face as the bard’s eyelashes brush along the Witcher’s palm. 

Geralt hums softly before offering the Witcher a soft, “Goodnight, Julian.”

Julian is silent but he slowly eases his hand away from the bard’s shut eyes and Geralt isn’t sure he’s drifting again or if he actually feels the ghost of a caress on his jaw before he definitely feels the gentle puff of Julian’s warm breath, smelling like the mint leaves he likes to chew on, against Geralt’s face as Julian breathes, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

With Julian laying beside him and providing the warmth Geralt so desperately was craving, his shivering abates and he easily falls back into a deep, comfortable sleep.

* * *

He’s not sure what wakes him as it’s still pitch black outside and the room is dark and silent save for the deceptively slow breathing of Julian accompanying his own normal breaths and the heartbeat in his veins and ears. The darkness pushes against his open eyes as they struggle to adjust and he feels a warm weight across his stomach and on his shoulder, hip, and one of his legs. 

With a delicate hand, Geralt lets his fingers drift until he finds the rise and fall of the back of his bedmate. Warmth floods his chest and rises to his face as he remembers falling asleep and realizes that it’s Julian with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, an arm thrown protectively over the bard’s waist and one long leg nestled between both of Geralt’s. 

His fingers dust across the bare skin of Julian’s back, the string callused pads of his fingers catching lightly on the raised scars that marr the Witcher’s skin, and in the weak moonlight Geralt can almost make out the set of long scars that cut across Julian’s shoulder that have a special place in the bard’s heart. The Witcher sustained them by throwing himself from Pegasus’ back to knock Geralt to the ground and protect the bard with his own body when a griffin had suddenly swooped at them three Summers ago.

The bard smiles and closes his eyes, allowing himself to start to drift off again before he’s reminded why he woke up in the first place by the pressure on his bladder and he vows from that night onward to always relieve himself before bed. Especially if cuddling with Julian is a possibility again because he nearly pisses himself at least three times in his attempts to extract himself from the Witcher’s clutches without waking him.

Who knew Julian would be clingy in sleep?

(Geralt wants to be annoyed, but when he returns from taking care of his business and Julian latches on to him again the swell of fondness in his chest overwhelms any irritation that had attempted to make its home there and the bard falls back asleep content.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	4. Foy Porter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt calms Julian down with a hot bath after a hunt gone very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it really a Witcher fanfic without a gratuitous bath scene?
> 
> CW: Implied Child Sexual Assault, Child Death

It’s with high spirits that Geralt performs in the small tavern that has made its home in the trading post of Hernford, a tiny town at the conjunction of the roads between Vengerberg and Vergen and Vattweir and Dol Blathanna. Julian is off taking care of a ghoul problem and even he was in a good mood when he left Geralt at the tavern, partly because it was a nice day and partly because Geralt had given him a sweet bun that the bard purchased back in Vengerberg and carefully preserved for two days in his pack. 

While Geralt enjoys accompanying Julian on his hunts, both for inspiration and to act as backup since he’s handy with a shortsword, ghouls are routine and boring. The foul creatures make their debut when a human body is left to rot under the hot sun and some are even smart enough to dig up corpses from cemeteries with blunt claws made for churning the hard packed dirt. They look disgusting, smell revolting, and are easy enough prey for the Witcher that Geralt feels no remorse over opting out of tonight’s hunt.

Instead, he’s debuting his newest song to the people of Hernford. It’s a rousing epic about the battle Julian forged against a nest of sirens off the coast of Temeria some months ago, detailing his bravery and cunning as he used the creature’s nature against them to find their nesting site. The song doesn’t mention that Geralt couldn’t see most of the fight from where he sat in their boat, bobbing on the swells of the dark sea as storm clouds gathered overhead and the dropping pressure made his ears pop, nor does it mention the amount of sea water Julian vomited when he got back aboard since Killer Whale wore off while he was still deep beneath the surface.

Geralt is modestly dancing around the tables, more of a sweeping walk than any sort of prancing that most bards do, when the door to the tavern slams open hard enough for wood to splinter off of the wall where the metal handle hits it. He looks up in alarm, his bow stilling against the strings of his fiddle, and his smile slips as Julian storms into the tavern with a snarl of murderous intent on his face. 

The Witcher is covered head to toe in dirt and blood, the two mixing in places to create a horrendous black sludge that stains the blue shirt he wears under his armor and makes his sun-tanned skin look almost as pale as Geralt’s. His hair is bedraggled and soaked through with viscera and his silver sword is in hand, the blood-stained blade fractured and missing a chunk as though it was slammed against a stone. There’s a moment of perfect silence before Julian raises a gloved hand and points aggressively at the alderman who is seated at the bar.

“ _ You _ !” He roars and stalks across the tavern floor, grabbing the front of the alderman’s shirt and lifting him out of his seat to slam the middle-aged man against the bar, “You thought you would get rid of two birds with one stone, eh? Well fuck you, I’m not dead yet, you fucking bastard!” 

The air of the tavern is so thick with tension it can be cut with a spoon and Geralt is torn on what to do. Their things are in their room upstairs so he can try to calm Julian down and figure out what’s wrong, play mediator for whatever dispute there seems to be between his Witcher and the alderman. Or he can just slip upstairs and grab their belongings since this wouldn’t be the first time Julian’s rage got them chased out of a town and it would be quicker to just embrace it rather than delay the inevitable.

Various emotions flicker across the alderman’s ashen face as he thinks of how to respond. The man settles on denial and raises his hands in surrender, stammering out, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Witcher!”

“Don’t play fucking stupid!” Julian shakes him slightly, restraining himself from slamming the alderman against the bar again, “Thought it would be a good idea to dispose of the bodies of those little children for so long that a fucking  _ alghoul _ decided to move into the neighborhood? Threw their broken corpses into the nest of foglets to make things a bit harder and then hire the Lyncher of Lettenhove to take care of and prepare for just one or two ghouls? You sick, whoreson, you’re a fucking piece of shit!”

Geralt has packed his fiddle away in its case and quietly collected his coin before sidling towards the stairs so he can dash up to their room. He’s never been afraid of Julian, but this type of fury makes him nervous since he sees it so rarely. If the Witcher were a mage it’s the type of wrath would make the earth tremble and the trees bend and bow to his temper until the trunks shattered and the ground beneath them splintered. Geralt knows this outrage comes pouring out after Julian’s been tolerating human injustice after human injustice, bottling up his ire at each wrongdoing he witnesses. He also knows that, while Julian is yelling about the attempt to kill him, he’s more upset about the mutilated corpses of dead children he found in the woods.

“Artie,” a waitress says quietly and steps forward bravely even as she trembles when Julian turns his blazing eyes upon her, “Is what he says true? You… accosted those little sprogs and then killed them? Used them as bait for the Witcher?”

The alderman splutters indignantly for a few moments before scowling and trying to shove Julian off of him, “What does it matter? They were all urchins and doing their civic duty to get rid of this  _ murderer _ .” A gasp of horror ripples through the crowd and Artie sneers, “Oh, come off it! The Witcher strung up my father in Lettenhove alongside ten others like he was nothing more than those elven  _ vermin _ -” Dissent and uproar bursts from the tavern-goers and Julian watches the humans shout angrily at their alderman while keeping a firm grip on the man.

“They were children!”

“You’re perverted!”

“Who cares if they were urchins? We take care of lost folk!”

“You cocksucking whoremonger!”

“You ought to be strung up yourself!”

Geralt carefully makes his way to Julian’s side and places a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder, wincing when Julian flinches under the unseen touch, “It’s just me, my friend. Perhaps we should leave the alderman’s penance to his people.”

Julian looks over his shoulder at Geralt before turning back to the alderman and hauling him upright again to bring them almost nose to nose. The Witcher’s voice drops to a threatening growl as the leather of his gloves whines against how tightly he’s holding the alderman’s shirt, “You better count your blessings,  _ Artie _ . My bard just spared you from a Witcher. Can’t say how your town is gonna treat you, though, you fucking rodent.” Julian then tosses the alderman to the enraged mob who swarm on him, their cries for justice turning to action against the criminal.

Geralt swallows thickly and tears his eyes away from the carnage to step up to the bar and clear his throat, “Ah, I just wanted to ensure that we’d still be allowed to stay the night?” He delicately leans against the bartop as he speaks with the barkeep, watching Julian out of the corner of his eye. The Witcher has his hands on his hips and a stormy scowl on his face as he watches the townspeople beat the shit out of the alderman.

The barkeep turns to him, her arms crossed tightly over her ample bosom and normally Geralt would appreciate that but he’s a bit distracted right now. She glances at Julian and grunts in affirmation, “One night. I want you two out at first light, though. Don’t need your Witcher causing more of a ruckus.”

“Of course,” the bard internally sighs as he resigns himself to having to start the next day with a battle against a morning-averse Witcher, “We’ll be sure to be gone as the first ray of dawn touches the horizon.” She just rolls her eyes at that and turns her attention back to the beating so Geralt approaches Julian and carefully touches the Witcher’s elbow.

“Come on, Jules, I’ve got a bath waiting for you and it should still be hot,” he speaks quietly since he knows Julian will be able to hear him over the din anyway and he can see the lingering toxicity of potions darkening the veins around his eyes. Julian shudders at Geralt’s gentle touch and allows the bard to lead him up the stairs to their room.

Geralt closes and locks the door behind them before setting his fiddle case on the single bed, he gave up on requesting double bedrooms a while ago when it’s cheaper to get a single and Julian never voices complaint against it, before turning to the Witcher and starting to strip him of his armor. Julian is flexing and relaxing his hands as he glares at the far wall, his body tense as a drawn bowstring and his breathing just the slightest bit unsteady as he fights the last of the potions.

“Which one?” Geralt murmurs softly so he doesn’t overwhelm Julian’s oversensitive hearing. 

“Cat. Black Blood. Kiss. Swallow,” Julian forces out through grit teeth and the bard makes a small noise of sympathy.

“You’re gonna end up taking too many one of these days,” Geralt gently chides him and removes Julian’s chest piece before searching for whatever wound required him to take both Kiss and Swallow, “Then what’ll happen?” Julian just grunts in response and closes his eyes for a moment before dropping his ruined sword on the table and removing his belt, placing it more gently to avoid breaking any of the remaining potions in the pouch strung on it.

Julian is quick and efficient as he removes his shirt, trousers, and boots and tosses them all onto one of the chairs by the table and Geralt tries to avert his eyes politely. Not before he gets a good ogle in first, though, as Julian strips off his smallclothes and sinks into the hot bath with a groan. The water immediately turns a murky brown as the sludge lifts from Julian’s skin and Geralt spies the injury requiring attention on Julian’s left arm, a gnarled chunk taken out of his shoulder that’s already stitching itself back together with the assistance of Swallow.

Geralt tsks and digs in his bag for his soaps and oils, removing the rosehip oil and the unscented bar soap he purchased specifically for Julian since they don’t accost the Witcher’s sensitive nose quite so aggressively as some of the other scents Geralt has tried. He then grabs a low stool from near the fire and sets it down behind the Witcher, setting his tools aside as he removes his doublet and rolls up his sleeves. “Dunk,” Geralt instructs and Julian sighs but does as he’s told, slipping down into the bath to submerge his head and rub his fingers through his chin-length hair. Geralt will need to give him a trim soon, maybe not tonight but in the very near future.

Once Julian is upright again, Geralt guides him to lean back against the edge of the tub, his shoulders pressing against the bard’s knees. Geralt then pours some of the rosehip oil into his hands and rubs them together to get it to become a lather before burying his fingers in Julian’s thick hair, massaging the Witcher’s scalp while also scraping away the gore that’s tangled in the matted tresses. They sit in silence for a long time as Geralt thoroughly cleans Julian’s hair until the Witcher breaks the peace, “White Honey.”

Geralt blinks and his hands still for just a moment as he tries to understand what Julian means, “I ah… I don’t think we can get that from the market, Jules. I’ve never seen white honey before, just the regular kind.”

“No,” he shakes his head and slides down a bit further into the water, “You asked what’ll happen if I succumb to potion toxicity. I have to take White Honey, it’s another potion that cancels out the effects of any other potion in my blood.”

“Why is it called that?”

“Because it’s white and its base is made with honey.”

Geralt pauses before stifling a laugh that would have been too loud in the quiet space and making it come out as more of a spluttered snort, “You Witchers are just so imaginative, not a single poet amongst the lot of you.”

Julian huffs a laugh and Geralt’s stomach does a complicated flip in response as his heart flutters, “Yeah, well, take it up with Vesemir. He’s probably old enough to have known the Witchers who did the naming.”

“And how would I do that? From what you’ve told me, your fencing master stays within the walls of your Witcher keep,” Geralt teases him to distract himself from the heat rising in his cheeks. He’s managed to turn Julian’s entire mood around, granted it’s taken him a decade to be able to do that but it still fills him with warm pride when he does.

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen next Winter.”

Geralt’s hands do stop along with his heart as all his thoughts come to a screeching halt, “I… w-what?”

Julian rolls his shoulders to try and loosen them up before shrugging, “We’ve traveled together on and off for a while and you pester me every year to take you with me. Don’t tell me you're changing your mind now?”

“N-no!” Geralt’s voice is a bit loud and Julian winces, “Sorry. I mean- I just- Are you sure?”

“Yeah, what’s the harm? If it’ll get you to shut up about it then it’s worth it,” Julian looks over his shoulder to give Geralt a sharp, teasing smile but it drops at the stunned look on the bard’s flushed face, “Geralt? You okay?”

“I-I-I, uh,” he says eloquently and after a few moments the mild concern in Julian’s eyes shutters and he turns away again.

“You don’t have to,” he says gruffly, sounding embarrassed, “I know you’d probably prefer the comforts of Oxenfurt to a drafty keep-”

“I’d love to.”

Julian whips around again to look up at Geralt with wide, golden eyes, “You would?”

An excited grin is slowly spreading across the bard’s face as he looks down at Julian, “Of course!  _ How _ you lot pass the Winter without any entertainment is a wonder to me, I can’t believe it took you eleven years to invite me-”

“I can,” Julian grumbles and settles back again but there’s no heat behind his words.

Geralt slaps his uninjured shoulder good-naturedly, “Don’t be fucking rude. I’m going to get to meet your other brothers and I’m going to write the  _ best _ songs about them! The Continent will sing in harmony the tales of the Wolves of Kaer Morhen and you’ll be treated like the heroes you all are-”

“Alright! Alright, don’t cream your pants there’s still four months till Winter,” Julian shakes his head with an amused sigh, “And what do you mean  _ other _ brothers?”

“Oh, I met Lambert some years ago.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Mhm,” Geralt picks up a bucket and rinses Julian’s hair before lathering his hands with the bar soap and digging his fingers into the tense muscles of the Witcher’s shoulders, “After the first Winter I spent with Yennefer. I left early to try and cut you off at the base of the Blue Mountains and wouldn’t you know there was a Witcher I didn’t recognize in the bar…” Geralt goes on to tell Julian the story of when he met Lambert and his Witcher punctuates it with various muttered insults about his brother and pointed sighs whenever Geralt starts to wax poetic about Yennefer. He’s in a good mood though and as they lay side by side in the bed later he starts tapping out a beat on his stomach.

Geralt listens to the gentle beat for a few moments before humming the melody of  _ Foy Porter _ , a love poem about the ideals of courtly love and how such a pure love can move the protagonist of the poem to become a better person. It’s a simple song, but a very old one with a beautiful melody. Geralt’s not quite sure why it’s titled the way it is since the words foy porter don’t occur anywhere in the song, but he assumes it’s because they’re another language and the piece has been translated to the common tongue.

His quiet humming fills the silence of the night alongside the beat that Julian adjusts to match the tune and after listening to Geralt hum the chorus Julian takes a breath and starts to quietly sing. His voice is unpolished and a bit rough as it usually is but his tenor timber lends itself beautifully to song and Geralt feels a pang of longing for the bard Julian could have become in another life.

“ _ There is no joy or enjoying _ _   
_ _ Nor any other good thing one could feel _ _   
_ _ Or imagine _ _   
_ _ Which does not seem to fade _ _   
_ _ When your sweetness chooses  
_ _ To sweeten my bitterness. _

_ Therefore to praise _ _   
_ _ And adore _ _   
_ _ And fear you, _ _   
_ _ To suffer everything, _ _   
_ _ To enjoy everything with you,  
_ _ To endure everything,  
_ _ I wish more than I desire  
_ _ To win reward _ .”

Geralt continues to hum the tune, occasionally switching with Julian when it’s clear the Witcher doesn’t know the words to the verses, and Geralt is drifting off into sleep to the soothing sounds of their music making. He’s stopped humming a little while ago and Julian stopped singing shortly after even as the drumbeat continues on his stomach and just as Geralt is about to drop off to slumber he hears Julian whisper the chorus into the darkness.

“ _ To keep faith _ _   
_ _ To guard your honor, _

_ To seek peace _ _   
_ _ To obey, _ __   
_ To fear, to serve  
_ __ And to honor--

_ All these I wish to do for you until death _ ,” Julian pauses and Geralt fights to stay awake to hear him sing the last line of the song as the heavy warmth of imminent dreams drags him down and under, his breathing evening out as he falls asleep.

“ _ Peerless bardling _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Foy Porter_ is a real song from 779 AD. It's originally in Latin which is why the English translation doesn't flow perfectly. You can check it out [here](https://www.lieder.net/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=108658)!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	5. Breaking the Seal, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt thinks he's caught Julian sleeping with Yennefer, his muse and the love of his life. In a fit of passion, he decides to go find a Djinn, because that'll definitely solve all his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, Bottled Appetites rewrite! No fluff in this chapter I'm afraid, my friends.
> 
> CW: Blood, vomiting, fighting between the bestest of friends, the idiots being stupid

The birds twittering cheerfully amongst the branches that sway gently in the summer breeze are making a mockery of him as he seethes and marches down the dirt path that allegedly leads to the Dyfne River. This might also be the fourth path he’s followed in as many days because he keeps getting different directions when he asks the surrounding villages and hamlets and if that adds to his ire then that’s nobody’s business but his own. Honestly, none of this would have happened if they hadn’t gone to Vengerberg to begin with, which is shocking for Geralt to even  _ think _ considering his muse and the light of his life, Yennefer, is the lady of the fine city. But the bard likes to keep his work and pleasure separate, and as such only stays at the Vengerberg court in the winter while Julian is at Kaer Morhen.

This excursion couldn’t be avoided, however, when the bard was with his Witcher all the way in Tridam, in northern  _ Redania _ and a portal opened up beside their camp. Geralt’s head had snapped up from his notebook, having been doodling Julian idly more than composing like he claimed when the Witcher asked him what he was doing a few minutes earlier. Julian had barely moved other than golden eyes flickering up from the wood he was whittling in boredom as a potion base brewed over their campfire.

“Yennefer! My love, what are you doing here?” Geralt had announced loudly and Julian rolled his eyes as he stood up to greet the sorceress. Yennefer glanced at Geralt with a thin smile before turning her attention to his Witcher, clasping her hands together in front of her.

“Pankratz,” she sniffed icily and Julian crossed his arms, shifting his weight to one foot and popping his hip out with a smirk.

“Vengerberg,” he nodded and they stared each other down for a few moments before breaking into grins and grasping each other's forearms in a friendly greeting. Geralt squinted at them in curious confusion, a pang of something unpleasant bringing a bitter taste to his tongue. He still remembered Lambert’s words from several years before about how Julian and Yennefer’s relationship was limited to hate-fucking. This sure didn’t look like they hate each other.

“So what’re you doing out in the middle of fuckass Redania?” Yennefer smiled and it was an actually  _ pleasant _ smile, not one of condescending amusement or pitying indulgence like the ones she bestowed upon Geralt.

Julian shrugged and had a smile of his own on his face. The unpleasant feeling got worse as Geralt felt like a third wheel to their conversation. “Got finished with a nasty bruxa contract. We’re headed West.” At least Julian had said ‘we’, as in him and Geralt.

“Towards the coast?” Yennefer raised her perfect eyebrows in surprise, “You going towards Kerack?”

“You wish I was, I’m not collecting on any siren contracts to get you more feathers, Yenna.”

“Yenna?” Geralt had whispered in mortified confusion and he felt his cheeks turning red with jealousy.

“No, no, I need you in Vengerberg,” she shook her head and Geralt couldn’t even appreciate how her perfect curls bounced around her bare shoulders with the movement, “I’ve got an infestation of gaveirs in the sewers and you’re the only Witcher I trust to take care of it with discretion.”

Geralt had fully expected Julian to turn down the contract, the Witcher  _ hates _ sewers with a burning passion, says he can’t smell anything for days afterwards. So Geralt was shocked when Julian just nodded, “I’m working on replacing my potion stock, can you come collect me in two days time?”

Yennefer nodded pleasantly, “You’ll still be here I ass-”

“Now hold on just one moment!” Geralt interrupted her and a flicker of irritation passed over both hers and Julian’s faces before they schooled their expressions into neutrality.

“Yes, Geralt?” Yennefer asked patiently, crossing her arms loosely over her chest in a very distracting manner. Julian’s crossed arms were not as relaxed and he looked like he was holding back a scathing remark about interrupting conversations.

Geralt had spoken without thinking and had nowhere to go, and as such his voice is a bit weak as he asks, “Surely I’m not being left behind?”

“Don’t be stupid, Geralt,” Julian rolled his eyes before he turned back to Yennefer, “Alright, we’ll see you in two days then.” Her violet eyes lingered on Geralt for a few moments longer than were comfortable before she squeezed Julian’s shoulder and reopened her portal, disappearing through it.

Geralt felt calmed by Julian’s use of ‘we’ again but he couldn’t stop the bitterness in his voice as he sneered, “ _ Yenna _ , huh? Last I heart, you two hated each other.”

Julian looked over at Geralt with an unreadable expression before feigning nonchalance and shrugging as he sat back down to his whittling, “People change.”

That impromptu visit led to them traveling through a portal to Vengerberg two days later, few words spoken between the bard and his Witcher in the meantime as Geralt sulked and Julian ignored it. Geralt liked to think Julian was sulking as well, in his own way, but he knows better than that and it just made him more petulant. While in Vengerberg, he couldn’t even enjoy all of the time he got alone in Yennefer’s court while Julian was tromping around in shit and storm runoff since her court is much busier in the summer. He had to find different beds to share than hers each night since he certainly wasn’t going to sleep  _ alone, _ not without Julian nearby to provide protection.

The final straw proved to be when he spied Julian emerging from Yennefer’s chambers on the last morning Geralt spent in Vengerberg. His chest had tightened and fury flooded his stomach, Yennefer was  _ his _ lady,  _ his _ muse, where did Julian get off on bedding such a beauty? Julian doesn’t even like her! He doesn’t like mages! So what was Julian doing in Yennefer’s bedchambers in the early hours of the morning and then slinking out like he was trying to escape notice?

Geralt had turned tail and stalked straight out of the castle, making a beeline in the direction of the Dyfne River where he had heard there’s a Djinn residing. Or at least there are songs about a Djinn in the Dyfne, and he’s determined to find it. Which is where he can be found now, tossing a stupid fishing net that he bought from a sodding fisherman in a shitting town that gave him fuck all directions  _ four times _ ! He’s not quite sure what he’s going to do or wish for once he finds the Djinn, but he knows it’ll be something truly devastating. Maybe he’ll wish for Julian to have a small dick, so he can never satisfy another partner. Nah, that would be a bit too cruel and Geralt still holds out hope of being one of Julian’s partner’s someday. 

He’s still contemplating what he’ll wish for as he methodically tosses the net out and reels it back in, knee-deep in the cold river water, when he hears whistling and the plodding of hooves on the dirt trail he followed to reach the river’s edge. Geralt grinds his teeth together as he recognizes the whistling to be Julian calling back to the mockingbirds, playing a game with the birds that the bard ordinarily finds incredibly cute. The horse steps stop behind him and he hears Julian dismount heavily before walking to the edge of the river. There’s silence and Geralt imagines his Witcher has his hands on his hips as he watches Geralt for a few moments.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Julian doesn’t sound angry or disappointed that Geralt left Vengerberg, he sounds… exasperated? Geralt scowls and grunts out, “Fishing, what does it look like?”

The Witcher sighs on the bank behind him and then says, “What, pray tell, are you fishing for? Don’t tell me it’s fucking cod. Or would you prefer carp? Pike? Bream? Honestly, I’m just listing fish I can think of. Zander? Is that a fish?”

“I’m not fishing for  _ fish _ ,” Geralt scoffs and tosses his sweat-damp hair out of his face to look over his shoulder and aim his fiercest glare at Julian, “I’m mad at you.” Gods, Julian has no right looking that good as his eyes squint and a small wrinkle appears between his brows, confusion painting his features. Normally, Geralt would love to take a moment and appreciate his friend’s attractiveness but he’s still angry so he turns away again and keeps tossing out the net.

Julian makes a small noise of frustration, “What the fuck ever for? The fuck did I do to you?”

“You know what you did, you bastard,” the bard grumbles, fully aware that the Witcher will hear him perfectly.

“No, actually, I  _ don’t _ know what I did, bard. What I know is that we were in Vengerberg and you were having a lovely time with your fucking muse while I was arse deep in sewage-”

“Oh,  _ I _ was having a lovely time with my muse, was I?” Geralt snarls and tosses the net out again, “I was having such a  _ lovely _ time that I barely saw her-”

“It’s not  _ my _ fucking fault you don’t visit courts in summer!”

“-and imagine my surprise when I see  _ you _ coming out of her bedchambers looking like the cat that got the cream!”

“ _ What?! _ ”

“Don’t deny it, Julian, denial isn’t a good look for you. I should know since you’re constantly denying my existence as even your  _ companion _ , let alone your friend!”

“Geralt,” Julian says in a dangerously low voice, “Don’t.”

“And you deny at every chance you get your involvement with the affairs of man. You meddle more than anyone else I know, Julian of Kerack, but your moral compass is as crooked as your whittling,” Geralt is on a furious roll now, barely listening to Julian as he rants with the fishing net hanging limply in his hands between sporadic tosses.

“ _ Geralt _ .”

“You, Julian of fucking Kerack, have as much commitment to the Path as you do to your friendships! Your loyalty wavers as much as your broken fucking voice. It’s no fucking wonder you were given up to Witchers, you would have never been even half the bard I am!” Geralt jabs his finger at Julian as he whirls around, feeling smug for just a moment at the insidious jabs he got in before he sees Julian. The Witcher’s hands are balled into fists and his teeth are bared in a wrathful snarl, eyes dark with rage. 

Geralt’s stomach plummets and he feels a flicker of nervousness that’s overwhelmed immediately by a flood of guilt as he realizes the terrible things he said, “Julian, I-”

“You  _ MOTHERFUCKER _ !” Julian howls before leaping off the bank and tackling Geralt bodily into the water, both of them going under the surface. Geralt can’t see anything as the water gets into his eyes and nose, his lungs spasming and his hands grappling with Julian as the Witcher easily overpowers him. The bard manages to get his hand on Julian’s face and he digs his fingers into the scars on his cheek where he knows the nerves will still smart and sting when too much pressure is applied.

Julian hauls him up out of the water and Geralt coughs it out of his lungs as the Witcher shakes him, hands fisted into Geralt’s doublet, “I have no fucking  _ loyalty _ ? Who keeps saving your pathetic fucking arse from the cunts you keep sticking your dick into? Who keeps you fucking fed and warm and buys you new fucking boots when yours are falling apart?”

“You also belittle me and insult me and leave me behind constantly!” Geralt shouts back as he hacks up a lung, “Pardon me for not realizing I should only half trust you! Maybe I should start half hunting the monsters, too, huh? If I’m doing all the fucking work!”

Julian roars and throws Geralt back down into the water and the fact that Geralt can tell his Witcher is still holding back on his strength, is still being careful with the bard even when as furious as he is, it infuriates Geralt even further. He throws his hands behind him as he hits the bottom of the river and his fingers wrap around something smooth and curved.

He gasps for air and sputters when the Witcher heaves him up again, bringing them nose-to-nose in the shallows, “What is it you want then, Geralt? Huh? What do you fucking want?”

Geralt shoves off of Julian and stumbles away, falling back onto his rear end and the thing he’s holding shatters on a rock, “I just want some damned peace!”

Julian pauses, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, “What the fuck is that?”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply when the sky darkens with clouds and the wind picks up, the birds falling silent in the trees as the branches whip around and the gale howls through the leaves. Julian stalks over and stoops down, grabbing the wizard’s seal that had been capping the amphora before it shattered under Geralt’s weight. The surface of the slow-moving river ripples and froths beneath the building tempest that’s challenged in fury only by the sparking anger in Julian’s eyes.

The Witcher opens his mouth as he brandishes the seal, presumably to rip Geralt a new one about Djinns, when his face suddenly goes white and he clamps his jaw shut as his shoulders jerk. The bard frowns and quickly gets to his feet, anger forgotten as concern takes over, “Julian? Are you okay?” Julian chokes and he drops the seal, one hand flying to his throat and the other grabbing Geralt’s shoulder tightly. When the Witcher opens his mouth, he coughs wetly and blood spills from his lips. “Julian!”

Julian’s knees buckle as the blood continues to spill from his lips and Geralt’s concern shoots straight up into panic territory, barely noticing the blood slowly staining the sleeve of his soaked doublet as he surges forwards to catch the Witcher, “Melitele, Jules, what do you eat? Fucking bricks?”

“Ger-alt,” Julian chokes out, fisting his hand in the back of the bard’s black doublet. The blood is staining Julian’s pale blue shirt as it rolls down his chin with each gurgling cough, Gerat’s suddenly glad that he prefers wearing black because he’s certain his clothes would be speckled with the blood that splatters from his friend’s lips. The Witcher gags and doubles over, heaving as a torrent of crimson drenches their boots. 

“Fuck! Jules, Julian, what do I do? How do I help you?”

Julian’s hands shake in the fabric of Geralt’s clothes as he gasps, “Y-Yen’fer.”

Geralt can’t help the small flinch at her name, guilt making his stomach twist, “Are you sure? I mean I think there was a healer in the last town-”

“ _ Ger’lt _ ,” Julian grabs the bard’s chin in one damp, bloodied hand to force hazel eyes to meet gold, “We ne- need Yen. Ma-” he’s choked off by a fit of wet, hacking coughs until he gags again and vomits another fountain of blood as he collapses to the ground.

“ _ Julian _ !” Geralt drops to his knees as he suddenly starts taking the majority of the Witcher’s bulky mass, grunting under the sudden weight. He looks around and spots Pegasus, shakily whistling to her until the mare plods over, her nostrils flaring at the sharp scent of her rider’s blood. Pegasus tosses her head and whinnies and Julian reaches a shaking hand up to pat her neck soothingly, trying to shush her through his blood-stained teeth.

Geralt’s heart is pounding frantically in his chest as his breaths come in short, fast gasps as he fights the rising waves of panic and hysteria that battle against his ability to think clearly. He doesn’t waste any more time heaving Julian into Pegasus’s saddle, mounting behind his friend and wrapping one arm securely around the Witcher’s waist as he spurs Pegasus into a gallop back towards Vengerberg. 

As they ride through the city limits Geralt can tell Julian is fading in and out of consciousness, a massive tumor having expanded on his throat and Pegasus’s white coat is just as stained as Julian himself as the Witcher slumps over her neck. People jump out of their path as they tear through Vengerberg towards Yennefer’s castle, shouts of alarm following them as well as yells of outrage at their recklessness.

“YENNEFER!” Geralt screams as they approach the walls of the castle. The guards recognize them and pull open the iron gates, allowing Pegasus to continue her sprint through. The horse’s sides heave beneath the girth and her coat is flecked with foam which also is gathering at the bit in her mouth. “YENNEFER!  _ HELP _ !”

The doors to the castle burst open as Yennefer rushes outside, wearing a fierce scowl that immediately disappears when she sees Julian slumped listlessly atop Pegasus and the crimson staining the morbid band. Geralt pulls up to the steps and she immediately opens a portal to a bedroom inside the castle as the bard jumps down from the mare’s back and braces himself to catch Julian. The Witcher is surprisingly light compared to earlier and when Geralt glances at Yennefer he sees her holding a hand out towards them, presumably using her magicks to make him easier to carry.

“Lay him on the bed,” she instructs as she follows them through the portal, “Then see to that horse and take a bath.” He lays Julian gently atop the crimson covers and opens his mouth to protest but the sorceress cuts him off, “I need space to work and you hovering will do nothing to help. Take care of the horse, keep busy and out of my way.”

He frowns but nods and glances at Julian’s pale face one more time. His Witcher looks so small on the large bed, with his tanned face ashen and blood-stained as it is, that it makes Geralt uncomfortable to look at so he quickly goes back through the portal. It snaps shut behind him, leaving him with a heaving Pegasus and an untethered feeling, like something important has just happened and he missed it.

“C’mon, Pegasus,” he murmurs and takes a hold of her bridle, not noticing the fact that his own blood is mixing with Julian’s on his hand as it oozes from a single jagged line on his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates Tuesdays. Find me on Tumblr @Kimception98


End file.
